


Seek ye first

by MrsCaulfield



Series: Divine Intervention [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, An ode to White Suit Crowley, Blasphemic masturbation, Blasphemy, Car Sex, Come Eating, Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, Hedonist Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Now there's a tag i never thought i'd type, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Elements, Semi-Public Sex, comedy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28979721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: It's been a week, and blessed Aziraphale can't seem to get his mind off of that hot waiter who gave him the best fuck of his life.Sequel to 'And ye shall find'
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Divine Intervention [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123709
Comments: 58
Kudos: 258
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Top Crowley Library





	Seek ye first

**Author's Note:**

> So I was only supposed to make a sequel to the first fic, but my brain went on all tangents and wouldn't leave this AU alone so I guess my attempt to make a PWP was an utter fail, as this series has now been fully plotted and will have 5 parts.
> 
> Whether that is good or bad news i have absolutely no idea

Despite Aziraphale's best confidences, Anthony hasn't been back at all.

He tries to think where he might have gone wrong. He was cock-sure back at the night of that party, right after their alleyway dalliance. He gave gratitude, praises hanging from his tongue. He kissed Anthony. Anthony kissed him _back._ And yet, from here on out, it's all become a bit of a muddle on how to proceed.

Can he have been lacking in his gratitude? When Anthony took him in that alley, gave him the best pounding he'd ever received in his considerably long life, it didn't feel like anything other than God's greatest gift. Anthony, with his dark red hair, handsome grin, and his criminally tight white suit, was a present wrapped by the arms of Heaven itself. And yet, as Aziraphale waits and waits for _any_ sign that would get them to cross paths again, to resume their relations and partake in the carnal equivalents of the bread of God, he can't help but feel that Anthony might have been more of a punishment instead.

Because this, spending every waking moment anxiously gazing at his phone and every lonely night furiously wanking in the sheets at the thought of callous hands steadying his hips for a profound railing, is _agony._ Torture of the utmost kind. It can't be anything other than judgment, to give Aziraphale a taste of exactly what he's been needing all his life—drops of the sweetest wine on a parched tongue—and have it all stripped away the next moment. A kindness given only to soothe, but not to satisfy.

He sent Anthony a text, the day after the party. Short and simple. It won't do to be too eager, or demanding. He simply thanked him for the service rendered by the catering company.

Anthony didn't reply.

Torture of the _utmost_ kind.

Because as far as signs go, there can't be any sign clearer than that.

He knows this. He's spent his entire life waiting on signs, to attune his mind, body, and soul to the will of God, who speaks not in words but in other ways. It has been an arduous path to train himself to find them, but he did not get to his current most _blessed_ position for nothing. And God's will has never led him astray.

And yet, a week on, there still exists a clenching in his chest, a ragged breath in his throat whenever he recalls that night of passion with Anthony, and he waits on his phone still. A portion of his mind is never _not_ on his phone. It's pathetic. Aziraphale isn't needy. He can derive his pleasures from other people. He can try dating again—he's had a couple of invitations to dinner. But he isn't feeling much in the mood for civil whiskers. Perhaps he's gotten too old for that. He can elect to go to seedy clubs again and hope that someone will be drunk enough to bend him over a toilet. If only to scratch the itch. The loss. The _hole_ that Anthony's absence left in him. 

But he can't bring himself to do either of those. There is no soul nor sight on Earth so grievously consuming, so _wonderfully commanding_ as Anthony and his outrageous white suit. He thought, to some extent, that it was mutual. But he may have been a tad presumptuous. It seems that Anthony didn't like him as much as he initially thought. Aziraphale lies in bed, flat on his back, and raises his eyes to the Heavens. _Was I not good for him?_ He doesn't expect Her to respond, but he feels better just knowing that someone's listening. He speeds up his hand on his cock, mindlessly spreading slick over his length. _He seemed like he really enjoyed me. I thought he did. He couldn't keep his hands off me._ His breathing grows ragged, a deeply familiar coil forming in his gut while he grips himself more firmly. He cries, stuttered breaths and moans filling the eerily silent room. He goes at himself, as fast as he can, wrist straining with the effort, but he keeps going, keeps breathing, keeps moaning and panting and praying. _For a while there, it seemed like he really wanted me. It was nice. "An-thony..."_ he whispers as the first spurt of come shoots out of him. "Anthony!" He screams, and it echoes off the walls when he stills his hand, lets more strings of come move off and land on the swell of his stomach, heaving with his afterglow.

Basking in the newfound silence, he closes his eyes and resumes his conversation.

_Was any of it even real?_

She doesn't respond.

He sighs pathetically, and when the feeling in his legs returns, he gets up and pads over to his en suite to clean himself up.

His phone pings on the nightstand.

He turns his head, eyebrow cocked.

_Be calm. It's probably nothing._

He proceeds to wipe his seed off his stomach. Like a decent human being.

And, as any other normal human being would, he makes sure that he is thoroughly clean before walking back into his bedroom on footsteps that are definitely _not_ eager. He makes it all the way to the nightstand at a very average pace, and gently takes his phone into his palm to look at the new message.

**Anthony C.**

_Have work at the royal hotel tomorrow til 10PM_

Aziraphale stares at his phone as though it mutated in his hand. Why is Anthony texting him this?

By instinct, he looks up at the ceiling.

_A sign?_

He groans. He's been over this, and where God’s will does not blow he will not push. Nothing further will happen between Anthony and himself beyond that one exquisite night they shared, fucking tenderly in that grimy alley. He shakes his head.

This has to be an error. Anthony obviously meant to send that to someone else. He probably still has Aziraphale's contact details on his phone and meant to send it to someone else whose name also starts with an A, and his thumb made a far-too-quick skydive onto Aziraphale's name instead. In a little while, he'll realise his bungle and send another text, to tell him that he's sent it to the wrong person, cordially apologise for it even.

His phone pings again. _Here it comes._

**Anthony C.**

_In case u wanna come pick me up. X_

Aziraphale gapes at his screen. This is madness. This... This can't be happening.

He flops back on the bed, looks up at the ceiling, each faint crack and line on the layer of paint heavily engraved in his memory.

_This has to be an error._

He gets no response, and he takes comfort in Her silence.

It seems too good to be true. He can't possibly be getting it this easily. Not after everything. 

_What do I do when I am troubled?_

_'Seek ye first Her kingdom and Her righteousness...'_

"And all these things shall be added unto me." He breathes up at the ceiling, eyes drooping shut, sated by his orgasm.

He falls asleep, naked in the sheets.

* * *

Aziraphale is at the front of the hotel at 9:56 the following evening.

He waits in his car for an approximate twenty-five minutes, fingers anxiously tapping on the steering wheel while he questions, for the one-hundredth time, what the fuck he's even doing.

He will not admit to having taken thirty minutes longer to prepare than his usual. He will not admit to selecting his most flattering powder blue shirt from the depths of his cluttered closet. He will not admit to the fragrant scent of mousse in his hair, placed with careful hands to produce tousled white curls. He is pretty by nature, he doesn't need much more to impress. He won't admit it. He won't.

A text. A text was all it took. Why is he waiting on Anthony's every beck and call? This isn't him. Aziraphale is a feast. An angel. A divine miracle. Men adore _him_ with their attentions, fumble over themselves to satisfy his every request. He does not tail after pretty waiters and play carpool service in the slightest hopes of a good old-fashioned prigging.

Aziraphale isn't some hedge whore.

So what can possibly explain what he is doing right now? 

Anthony makes his way across the carpark, approaching Aziraphale's car with that wild saunter of his. Hips swinging side to side. His distinguishing property. He's taken off his jacket and cummerbund, the tie of black silk hanging loose around his neck, resting under the undone collar button that leaves the enticing dip of his clavicle exposed. He peers through the passenger side window, and Aziraphale unlocks the doors for him to slide into the seat.

And then they're alone, staring at one another.

Aziraphale blinks, as though to see whether the figure before him is just a mirage. Anthony looks far too delectable to be real. His sun-kissed golden skin. His tight jawline. His honey-coloured eyes.

Oh.

Aziraphale has never noticed the colour of his eyes before. 

"Hi," he says, rather dumbly. What does one usually say in these things? 

Rather brave of him to ponder on other things when he still hasn’t determined what he’s doing here.

Anthony quirks up a brow. "Hey yourself."

Would it be okay for Aziraphale to kiss him? Oh, how he wants to kiss him, to savour that plush lower lip, lick into his mouth, mingle their spits and breathe in the air that he exhales...

Probably not a good idea.

He doesn't even know what Anthony expects from here. Should they talk first? Should he lean in, coax him into a kiss, snog him right there in the car to set the mood for the main event later in his flat? This is all so absurd.

And no one said anything about going back to his flat. It was a pretty vague text, after all. For all he knows, maybe Anthony just forgot how to call an Uber.

Aziraphale wants to wither in his mortification. What a silly old man he is.

"You look good, angel."

Aziraphale desperately wants to kiss him.

Instead, he faces front and pulls the car out of its spot. He starts to drive, even with all his wits located elsewhere. He isn't even sure where they're going, where Anthony expects them to go. He feels rather silly for having to ask. Nothing about this is going right.

"Do we go to my flat?" He holds a breath.

Anthony scoffs. "Obviously."

Aziraphale nearly kicks himself in shock. Okay. Good. That is... a very good sign. His body temperature flares up, kicking into overdrive. It's only a word. A word was all it took. _'Obviously’_ —and he's sprung up to half-mast in his pants. _Good Lord._

He keeps his eyes fixed on the road. Safety is paramount, and he’s usually a meticulous driver, but he wants to _touch_ Anthony so much and he fears his senses are thoroughly compromised. With the open promise of another good round (or hopefully several rounds) in his flat, he can't seem to stop himself anymore. Will Anthony welcome it? There isn't any way to be sure until he tries.

He takes in a shaky breath, left hand leaving the wheel and crossing the seats. He keeps his gaze resolutely on the road, unwilling to look at Anthony in case there's any hint of a rejection. His hand hovers momentarily in the air. What is happening to him? He isn’t like this. Aziraphale has never been shy about his advances.

Aziraphale knows what he wants—and he _gets_ what he wants.

And right now, there is not a thing on Earth that he wants more than Anthony.

He lays a palm flat on Anthony's thigh, fingers flexing over the smooth top before gliding inwards, firmly gripping into the muscle between his legs. It tenses under his touch. Anthony makes a soft groan—a small, near imperceptible noise—and he relaxes in his seat, spreading his legs as far as they could go within the confined space.

_Hallelujah._

Pleased that he seems receptive, Aziraphale grows bolder. He firmly strokes Anthony's thigh, up from the crevice right beside his groin and down to the top of his knee, lingering to rub circular patterns over the slippery fabric of his tight trousers. Anthony twitches under his fingers. He doesn't dare to look, lest he lose the ability to drive. He feels powerful. In control.

Anthony chuckles darkly. "You think you're so good with teasing."

Aziraphale raises a brow in response. It just so happens that he is indeed good with teasing. He's good at getting anything he wants. He has been, and always will be, extremely _blessed._

But he says nothing.

Anthony slaps his hand away, and he giggles and places it back on the wheel with a triumphant beam. 

Then, he hears something unzipping. A furious blush creeps up his neck, and very briefly he takes a risk, glancing out of the corner of his eye and allowing himself a glimpse of Anthony in his seat, taking his fully erect cock out of his briefs, gripping himself at the base. He gasps when Anthony gives a few light pulls at his member.

He fixes his eyes back on the road.

_Lead me not into temptation..._

He can feel Anthony's gaze, hot and viscous on himself. From the sounds alone it's easy enough to surmise what he's doing even without needing to see it. He pumps himself at a moderate pace, slick sounds emanating from the slide of precome on his shaft.

Aziraphale swerves the car off to the side of the road, far away from the lamplights, and stops.

Very slowly, he casts a full look over at Anthony.

A rich smirk plasters itself on Anthony's face as he sits, openly staring at Aziraphale's lap, and he increases the pace on his dick, panting. 

"You can't do that," Aziraphale says disapprovingly.

The hand on Anthony's cock doesn't stutter in movement. "I'd like you to try and stop me."

Aziraphale can't stop looking at him. A _vision._ His mouth waters at the sight of Anthony and, against himself, a soft whimper rises from his throat. 

The hand comes to an abrupt stop.

Groaning slightly, Anthony tucks his stiff cock back into his briefs. "You're right. I shouldn't do that in here."

"Thank you," Aziraphale says breathlessly, trying, and failing, to hide his disappointment.

Anthony looks smug, easily reading his face, and all at once he hates himself for being so transparent. _'You're such a mess, and I haven't even touched you yet.'_ He shivers. How does he even do that?

Though he seems resolute in stopping, Anthony's hand is unable to leave himself just yet, and he cups his bulge, digging the heel of his palm for a long second before finally letting go.

He stares shamelessly at Aziraphale, that same hungry look from their first night a familiar and _entirely_ welcome sight.

"Have big plans tonight. I don't plan on unloading anywhere that isn't inside your arse."

Aziraphale blushes and shivers, his heart stuttering in his chest. Everything all at once alive inside him. The grin widens on Anthony's devastatingly handsome face, and he hates himself again for being so obvious. He huffs indignantly.

"That is sensible," he says in a neutral tone.

Anthony leans forward, hand diving to Aziraphale's lap and cupping his own straining bulge, long fingers expertly working to undo his trouser button. Aziraphale squeaks.

"Anthony!"

He pulls down Aziraphale's zip, ignoring him. "Let me play with yours, then."

"Anthony, we can't," he says while Anthony pulls out his cock and pinches the tip. "We're in public!" He gasps as Anthony gives him swift, merciless strokes. No hint of teasing. The main goal evidently being to get him off as quickly as possible.

He cranes his neck. _My God, am I in Hell? This is torture of the most unimaginable kind._

"Didn't hear you complain about that when I had your sweet bum impaled on my cock in an alley.” The sounds of skin slapping on skin fills the car while his pace on Aziraphale refuses to relent. His expression is schooled, _infuriatingly_ neutral. Faintly fascinated and smug. Aziraphale is a wretched, sobbing mess. "Angel. So eager to bend over for me. That's why you went tonight, right? You want my cock so far up your arse you see the fucking stars. Tell me."

Aziraphale pants, broken sounds rising from his throat. "N-no!" He gasps, his head thrashing back into the headrest when more slick beads at his tip. Anthony's hand is instantly there to spread it over his length, keeping the merciless pace that's sending fire into his veins. "I-I wanted to s-s-see you, A-Anthony," he whimpers brokenly.

"Oh?" His voice is way too casual. Aziraphale wants to slap him and snog him senseless. "How sweet. Tell me more?"

"I-I..." He heaves in a breath, trying to get his heavy tongue to do words. "I m-missed y-y-you... W-wanted to see y-you a-again..."

"Want me to fuck you again?"

 _"Yes!"_ he rasps, his mind clouding as more streams of pleasure thrum over every limb of his pliant body. He wails and spreads his legs, glancing down to watch Anthony's hand moving over his hard glistening cock, and moans obscenely. "A-and also to k-kiss you... T-touch you... Talk to y-you... Be with you... I've never... never... Anthony, Anthony, oh my _God._ Oh, f-fuck!"

"I missed you too, gorgeous." His voice is a tad softer, but Aziraphale barely has time to take note of it as his gut clenches tight and his thighs quiver uncontrollably. "You're such a sweet fuck."

"Anthony, I'm-I'm gonna—!"

"Do it, angel. You want to be good for me, right?"

Aziraphale nods.

"Then come."

He screams, fingernails digging into his palms as he is shoved over his tipping point, heaving forward with the wave of his orgasm. Anthony's hand is quick and attentive, swiftly gliding up to close in on his head, holds it still as Aziraphale spills and spills, streams of his sticky seed slipping in the spaces between Anthony's fingers, sliding down to his bare wrist so that none of it gets on his clothes.

Aziraphale keeps panting through his haziness, the familiar loss of tension in every single part of his body. He watches—is unable to look away, really—as Anthony brings his hand up to his mouth to lap at the spend and moans softly. Long, pointed tongue savouring every drop of Aziraphale's cum. He doesn't quite understand the eagerness. Aziraphale detests the taste of cum, he's learned early on how to deepthroat so he doesn't have to get any of it on his tongue. Aerated cum is even worse—bitter cold and dreadfully sticky. Nevertheless, Anthony cleans it off his fingers and moans like it's some gourmet variant of vanilla frosting.

Aziraphale is limp on the headrest, staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

Anthony finishes up and smacks his lips. "So that's what you taste like," he says, as casually as he does everything else. It infuriates Aziraphale and makes him want him even more. "Sweet thing, you are. It's addicting."

 _So are you,_ Aziraphale wants to reply. Instead, he reaches over and cups Anthony's cheek, drawing him into a fierce kiss.

Anthony growls, grabs the back of his head and fists his blond curls, shoving their faces more deeply together, teeth grazing Aziraphale's lips. He's alive. He's on fire. He's being devoured. He wants to be devoured. Taken apart, split open, consumed to ashes, again and again and again. For as long as Anthony wants to. 

Anything. Anything for Anthony.

Anthony coaxes his mouth open, slips his tongue into Aziraphale's mouth. _Oh._ Aziraphale groans, tugs his tie and twists it a few rounds on his knuckles until they're pressed together as much as their parted seats would allow them. Like they can't spend another split-second apart. Anthony moves into him, his flexible tongue caressing wet, hot crevices inside him, and he marvels at how even something as revolting as his own cum can taste so divine when it's drunk from inside Anthony's mouth. 

"Angel," Anthony pulls back, panting loud. "We keep doing this and I'm gonna have to fuck you sideways in this car. You _need_ to get us to your flat."

Aziraphale nods, steals another lingering kiss from his mouth before pulling back to his seat and fixing himself back into his trousers.

"Utter fiend," he says feebly as he starts the car. "You didn't have to do that."

"You seemed a little tense," Anthony replies, shrugging. 

His hand never leaves Aziraphale's thighs for the remainder of the ride.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm feeling a load of self-shaming right now for having to type the term 'aerated cum' with my own two hands. 
> 
> So uh.... see you next time?
> 
> (For more cumbum daddy shenanigans, come talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/angelsnuffbox) and/or [ Tumblr!](https://angelsnuffbox.tumblr.com/)


End file.
